The month passed fast. By the end of Konoha Year 46, the war had gone exactly where everyone knew it was going: full scale.
Akimichi led the squad on their first mission, a supply run to the front lines.
The Land of Fire was the largest and wealthiest nation in the shinobi world, blessed with vast territory and abundant resources. That wealth meant it had no real motivation to attack anyone. In every Great Ninja War, Konoha played defense.
Sora had done his homework, though. He'd studied the news closely enough to see the pattern. The Land of Fire liked to exploit price differentials, bleeding other major nations dry through economic leverage. When the exploitation reached a tipping point and the other nations pushed back with sharp words and sharper threats, the Land of Fire pivoted to sanctions. Cut off trade with a country and watch it scramble: shortages, inflation, chaos. Then swoop in and profit off the wreckage.
The Land of Fire preached peace and righteousness with a straight face, because it could afford to. It never needed war to get what it wanted.
But when the Daimyo of the great nations exhausted every diplomatic and economic avenue and the grievances kept piling up, someone always threw the first punch. Competing demands collided all at once, and you had yourself a Great Ninja War.
The worst part for the Land of Fire was the pattern that repeated every time: the other hidden villages ganged up on Konoha first. An unspoken alliance to cut down the tallest tree. Each war left Konoha a little weaker, a little more diminished. And each time, the moment Konoha was sufficiently battered, the coalition fell apart over how to divide the spoils and turned on each other, leaving Konoha to lick its wounds in peace.
The shinobi world was too small. Like a cramped island where everyone knew everyone's business. The script never changed. History kept running the same play.
Sunagakure's ninja weren't the strongest fighters one-on-one, but they were ruthlessly efficient. Poison was the weapon of choice. Strike once, don't bother confirming the kill, vanish into the desert. As Akimichi-sensei had explained, every poisoned casualty drained Konoha's logistics: medics, antidotes, hospital beds, personnel tied up in triage instead of fighting. Suna had a reputation for cruelty too, a particular enjoyment in watching enemies writhe and die slowly.
Both sides were hemorrhaging personnel at a pace neither could sustain. Konoha had superior individual skill. Suna had lethality per engagement. None of the Five Great Nations were easy opponents.
They were still deep in the Land of Fire's interior, but ninja squads kept streaking past the four of them, heading toward Konoha or the front at full speed. Akimichi-sensei used every minute of travel for combat drills, and Sora felt the tension thickening with each mile.
Forty years of combined life experience and I'm still nervous. He felt he owed his weathered soul an apology.
"Suna's greatest strength is stealth and infiltration," Akimichi-sensei continued, walking them through combat scenarios between stretches of hard running. "They move like desert cobras. Hide, strike with poisoned weapons, disappear. Your survival depends on spotting them first. Stay alert during movement. Scan your surroundings constantly. If you detect them before they strike, you've already won half the fight. And whenever the squad is stationary, Teju, defensive traps go up immediately. No exceptions."
The frontline camp sat in open country, positioned as far from civilian settlements as possible.
In a way, shinobi warfare reminded Sora of the aristocratic wars from the ancient history of his old world. Commoners had no place on the battlefield. War was a brutal game reserved for the privileged class, and the minimum price of entry was a fief and a suit of armor.
Those who lived by violence died by violence. That was a shinobi's fate, the same way drowning claimed swimmers, not the people who stayed on shore.
The street thug who carried a blade would one day bleed out on that same street, reduced to a case study in a textbook chapter on justifiable self-defense.
Civilian casualties were inevitable, and no ninja would hesitate for a second if it came to that. But this convention of keeping the fighting away from populated areas was perhaps the most unexpected gentleness the shinobi world had to offer.
Konoha couldn't afford to let a combat asset like Akimichi Yoshimaru babysit three kids during wartime. Once they reached the frontline command post, the Tokubetsu Jonin reported to Namikaze Minato and was reassigned. From here on, the supply runs belonged to the three genin alone. They'd keep hauling materiel until the front lines thinned out enough to pull reserves forward. Then they'd be fighting too.
The three of them weren't allowed to wander the camp freely, but Sora studied every detail he could see, mapping the layout in his head. The camp's core was a triangle: the Command Tent, the Field Hospital, and the supply depot.
The squad tents looked scattered at first glance, but they ringed the three central structures in deliberate patterns. A real commander didn't gamble on clever stratagems every time. Raw strength and sound positioning were what mattered. The three most vital buildings sat right in the open, practically daring an enemy raid. Anyone who tried would pay dearly for it.
Squads with fresh orders filed out of the Command Tent at a brisk clip.
The ones returning from missions were harder to watch. Especially the squads missing members. You could tell at a glance: headcounts short, everyone bandaged, faces carved with grief or locked in blank, tight-jawed fury.
A faint smell of blood hung over the camp. This was war in the shinobi world.
The three of them delivered their cargo, turned around, and headed back to the village. Then did it again. And again.
At the mission distribution office, the pattern was predictable. Clan members claimed the grain transports, the medical supply convoys, all the heavy, slow-moving cargo that required wagons and horses. Bulk goods like food were too large for storage scrolls to be practical, so they moved by cart. Following a plodding supply train meant less time exposed at the front. Safe. Comfortable.
Sora's squad, Might Guy's squad, and the other civilian teams watched the Uchiha, the Sarutobi, the Hyuga load up behind their wagons and roll out of the village at a leisurely pace. Nobody said a word. Their faces had gone past expression into something flat and practiced. What was there to say? You got used to it.
Sora shouldered another bundle of supply scrolls and sprinted for the village gates.
Let the clan kids take their caravan field trip. All he wanted was the money.
Every supply run during wartime counted as a C-rank mission. Two thousand ryo each, funded by the Fire Country Daimyo and the great clans. Sora wanted to run as many as his legs could carry him. Let the money come harder, faster, more. He intended to be nothing but a cold, heartless money-making machine.